


The Boy Who Cried Wolfe

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:49:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1897224/chapters/4089834">The Curious Case of the Boy in the Raincoat</a>.</p><p>Nero has reappeared in John Watson's life, this time with a new mystery!  </p><p>What's happened to Irene Adler?  What's happened to Sherlock Holmes?  </p><p>Can John Watson solve the case in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Help Wanted

It was a Saturday at just around nine in the morning that the boy in the raincoat appeared at John Watson’s door.

It had been a little over a month since John had last seen the boy, the one that was known as Nero. Nero: the plump, precocious, dark-haired progeny of Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes. The boy’s arrival the month prior had created no small amount of drama and adventure, and while John was loathe to admit it, he was almost excited to see the boy again.

After all, this previous month had been very unmoving. Mary was pregnant, getting slowly more pregnant, and their life was becoming more stagnant, more full of things for the baby, more things that would keep them firmly rooted in the home they had bought. Sherlock appeared less and less often. It was almost as though Sherlock were worried his presence would somehow taint the unborn daughter that John and Mary were producing, and therefore shied away. Mary encouraged John to visit Sherlock, but Sherlock was rarely in anymore.

It was worrisome, at first. And then, after a while, it became routine. And John loathed routine above all else.

Nero’s arrival signaled the arrival of something new. Something changing, something happening. Particularly, as the boy arrived alone. No mother, no Sherlock, and no bags or pets alongside him. Just himself, sniffling in the London drizzle.

“Dr. Watson,” Nero said, looking up. “I’m glad you’re in.”

“My car’s out front, you knew I was in,” John replied. He was going for terse in his tone, but he couldn’t quite hide the smile on his face. “I didn’t know you were in town. Is your mother with you?”

Nero shook his head, and looked past John’s legs, as though looking for someone behind him. Mary, perhaps? No, Nero wouldn’t be looking for Mary.

“Sherlock’s not here,” John said. He’d gotten used to thinking of Irene as Nero’s mother, but calling Sherlock ‘your father’ was about the strangest thing that John could think of, and he still couldn’t quite make that work.

“He’s not at his flat,” Nero said, looking up at John. His face scrunched up, concerned.

John nodded. “He’s been spending a lot of time on cases. Did you try ringing him?” A pause. Nero had the tendency to text his father pretending to be Irene, in some elaborate plan to get the two of them together. John found the idea of the boy’s matchmaking a lot more amusing than the matchmaking itself. The idea of Sherlock Holmes romantically entangled at all left John a bit confused and with more than a little bit of a strange taste in his mouth. Sherlock was so _cold_ all of the time. But it was an odd family unit that appeared to function on its own. They functioned. They were strangely happy together. Well, as happy as Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes could be.

“Did you try ringing him as _yourself_?” John amended.

Nero nodded. “He’s not picking up, but I need to find him.”

There was definite intensity in Nero’s voice, and John took half a step to the side to let the boy inside. Nero stepped in instantly, and immediately headed towards the kitchen. Of course he did. John sighed, and reached up for the jar of cookies that Mary had on reserve for her late-night pregnancy cravings. He offered the boy one.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Nero took a cookie. “My mother’s missing.”

John was so startled he nearly dropped the jar of cookies. Irene Adler, missing? As in, the whole of her? Just gone? Not just her mental faculties, which John was rarely certain were entirely there to begin with?

“Since when?” John asked.

“This morning,” he replied. “We arrived here, in London, to do some business. Her business. And when I woke up, she was gone, so was Playback. She left her mobile.”

Nero held up the mobile, and John reached out for it. Nero pulled it back. “I shouldn’t,” he said. “She’d get mad.”

John gave the boy a look. “If we’re going to find her, we need to work out where she’s been.”

“She keeps it password protected.”

“Do you know the password?” If anyone would, John suspected Sherlock’s son might.

“Not this week, she just changed it.”

John let out a laugh. “She changes her password every week?”

“To make sure I don’t learn it.”

That sounded about right. But for her to have left her mobile? That was worrisome. More than worrisome, that was very unlike her. The last time she had left a mobile somewhere, she was faking her death for Sherlock Holmes. She wouldn’t do that to her own son, though, would she?

John pulled out his own phone and sent Mary a quick text, telling her he’d be heading out.

“And you said Sherlock wasn’t in?” he said, grabbing his own coat.

“Not answering his phone, either,” Nero replied, around his bite of cookie.

“All right, we’ll take my car.”


	2. Home to Roost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Nero arrive at 221b, but what will they find there? What clues to the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler is John Watson seeing? And what does Nero know that he isn't saying?

Nero _fidgeted_. It was strange, seeing the boy that John remembered so vividly as someone who was calm to the point of creepy, so bundled up with nervous energy. The boy toyed with his nails and picked at his trousers and fumbled with the buttons on his raincoat as he looked outside.

“We’re going to find her,” John said. John could only assume this was what the boy was nervous about. His mother and his dog, as far as John could see, were Nero’s whole world. Without them, he must have felt quite lost indeed.

Nero turned to John, and his expression was blank. A forced sort of blank, the way Sherlock’s was when he was trying to pretend he didn’t care.

“Your mother. We’re going to find her,” John reiterated.

“Both of them are missing,” Nero said.

John shook his head as he turned the car towards Baker Street. “Sherlock’s not missing,” he said, firmly. “If I know him, he’s just being…Sherlock. And sometimes that involves disappearing for long stretches of time.”

“The last time we visited, he went missing,” Nero pointed out.

“You call that a visit?” John asked, letting out a short guffaw. “I can’t imagine what it’s like if you all stayed for a while.” Those few days had been, to put it lightly, _difficult_ for John. They began with a gruesome but fascinating case, and ended with a really long, heartfelt make-up conversation with his wife, who needed to become her own person as well as a mother. And somewhere in there, John found out that Sherlock was a father, Irene Adler was alive, and there was an Italian mafia club in the city. Difficult, indeed.

“We’re going to Baker Street?” Nero said, looking out the window.

“We’ll check out the flat,” John agreed. “Make certain everything’s in place, that there aren’t any notes or signs of a scuffle you missed…”

“You think _I_ would miss something like that?” Nero asked, sounding exactly like a tiny version of his father.

“Yes, I think that you’re human and can make mistakes,” John replied, tartly. “I also think you’re four years old, and no matter how precocious you can be, you’re still missing some insight I have.”

Nero gave John a dubious look, which only garnered a very put-upon sigh in reply from John.

“Do you want my help, or shall I drop you off there?” John snapped.

Nero shook his head. “No, no, I want your help. I just don’t know if we should go _there_.”

“You have a better idea in mind, I assume?” John inquired.

“I know where Mother was going,” Nero said. “Father might’ve gone there to help her.”

John turned on Baker Street, and glanced at the boy from the corner of his eye. “Did she contact him? Ask for help?”

“I don’t know,” Nero admitted. “I know I did, but he didn’t respond.”

John pulled up in front of 221, and hopped out, over to the door. Mrs. Hudson had never requested the key back, and John had never offered it, so he still had everything he needed to enter the flat. To see what might’ve been left behind for them.

There was a noise behind him, and the little boy in the raincoat was following. For all his precociousness, for all his bullheadedness, and how very like his father he could be, the boy was still only four. John couldn’t risk putting him in danger.

“Maybe you should stay in the car,” John instructed, gesturing.

“I want to help,” Nero said.

“And I don’t want you getting hurt,” John said. “We don’t know what’s up there, yet. It could be dangerous.”

“I know some ju-jitsu,” the boy responded. He struck a pose. It didn’t look comical, which was really quite frightening.

John let out a long sigh. “Actually, I’m not even remotely surprised.”

“And I can call for help if something happens to you,” Nero added.

“Fine,” John said. “Fine, just stay close.”

Mrs. Hudson was out, and John stepped up to the door. There weren’t any visible scratches on the handle, and the knocker was at the slight angle to which Sherlock preferred it. So no Mycroft here, either. Just John and a frightened little boy, twitching nervously behind him.

John pushed open the door and stepped inside, waiting for Nero to follow.

Up the stairs, everything seemed in order in 221b. That is to say, the flat was a horrid mess with everything thrown everywhere. Or, at least, that’s what it always looked like to John. John knew that Sherlock had a method, had a place for everything in the flat. The laptops, stacked up. His best laptop was gone, that was important. His coat was usually hung up, but it was gone, so was his best scarf. The books went there, the casework went there, and the violin went----

John stepped over to the window.

“The violin,” he said. “It’s not where he keeps it.”

“Does it matter?” Nero inquired. “I don’t think that’s as important as him being missing.”

“No, no, I suppose it doesn’t,” John admitted. But it nagged him. Everything else missing made sense, as though Sherlock had simply left for a case, but the violin being gone was---well, it was _wrong_.

What would Sherlock say to something being wrong?

“None of his cases are new,” Nero said, gesturing to the stack. “I looked. You can look. He’s not on a case. I don’t know where he is.”

John stepped over to the desk, where a few older cases as well as some flight schedules were lined up, but nothing _recent_. Everything was a week old, at least.

“Unless Sherlock left a week ago,” John said. “Which he might have.”

“And left his kettle on,” Nero said, gesturing to the kitchen. “I turned it off when I came in.”

John stepped over to the kitchen, where the kettle was sitting next to the heater. Both were cool, now.

“You didn’t tell me that,” John said.

“I forgot.”

Reasonable enough. The boy was clearly agitated. He didn’t want to be here, among his father’s things, when he felt there was more to be done elsewhere. John could understand that. But Sherlock would want to investigate. He’d want to know where everything was before he went missing.

“Where was she going?” John asked.

“The May Fair Hotel,” Nero replied. “She was meeting a politician there.”

John whistled. “Never spares expense, your mother.”

“She says that’s a big waste of energy, sparing expense.”

“Yeah, she would,” John replied. “Do you know which politician?”

Nero nodded. “Some man named Grederio. She hadn’t talked to him before.”

Grederio. John considered the name, considered the occupation. He didn’t follow politics as much as he probably should have, but he did read the news every now and again, and that name sounded familiar.

He did what he thought Sherlock would do. He pulled out his phone and Googled it. The name appeared immediately with news.

“Grederio. Up and rising German politician, staying in London right now, according to the press,” he read aloud.

“That must be him,” Nero said. “Should we go?”

“And ask him what?” John demanded. “Where Irene Adler is? If he’s got her, he’s not going to tell us.”

“Then you can hit him,” Nero said, gesturing. “You’re good at that, I’ve seen you.”

“Yes, well, I shouldn’t be,” John replied. “And you shouldn’t be…seeing that.”

“I shouldn’t worried about my mother, either,” Nero said, pursing his lips. “But I _am_. We should go and find her.”

At that moment, John’s phone beeped, signaling a text. John looked down, to see a blocked number had messaged him.

_where is he_

John looked from the text message, up to the little boy, looking expectantly at him from the opposite side of Baker Street.

As he did, the phone signaled again.

_i’m coming for him_

John extended a hand. “Come on,” he said. “We’re leaving.”

“Why?” Nero demanded. “What did those texts say?”

“Someone’s looking for you, and we’re not staying in one place to make it easy for them.”


	3. Door to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Nero flee to the May Fair Hotel. What awaits them in this place? Will John discover who is following them?

John led the way back down to the car. Nero bounded after, looking far more worried than he had before. Well, John supposed, the boy had every reason to worry. Someone was after him. Someone who knew John’s mobile number.

The May Fair hotel was one of the most expensive in London. John knew where it was in the way that most people knew where the expensive wine was kept in the shop. It was kept in a place that was _away from them_ and that was really all there was to say about it. Driving up to the May Fair was odd and exotic, and John felt like he was, once again, in a place he didn’t belong.

Perhaps he was walking into a trap. Nero appeared calmer on the drive, and even calmer as they approached the hotel. One of the men at the front gestured to the boy as he stepped out of the car.

“You’ve stayed here before?” John asked.

“Several times,” Nero replied. “It’s not Mother’s favorite place to stay, but she says it keeps up appearances.”

John let out a snort. “Taught you a bit about that, has she?”

“Of course,” Nero replied. “It’s essential to conveying tone.”

John stepped out of his car and was greeted by a man ready to take his car and park it for him. The charge, he imagined, would be sent to Irene Adler’s room immediately.

The front room at the May Fair was extravagant. The height of the modern hotel scene, with a sleek bar and dining area as they entered, and John felt like a complete stranger in his jumper, jeans, and black coat. The other occupants of the bar were men in expensive suits and women in black dresses with complicated updone haircuts. Nero walked past these people with ease, heading towards the lifts like he knew the place inside and out.

Of course, this was the child of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. For all John knew, Nero did know the place inside and out. For all John knew, the boy had the bloody building plans memorized.

“I’m surprised they let you keep your dog here,” John said.

“They let Mother do a lot of things she’s not supposed to,” Nero said. “All she has to do is…”

“Let me guess,” John interrupted. “Figure out what they like?”

Nero shrugged. “It’s what she does.”

“Is she going to teach you that, too?”

Nero nodded. “Eventually.”

Oh, thank god it wasn’t going to be right away. The little boy was strange enough as it was, having him try to figure out what people liked (or even stranger, what they _liked_ ) would be so odd.

The lift opened, and Nero stepped in, gesturing for John to follow. Nero peered outside for a moment as the doors started to close.

“Hang on,” John said. “Do you know who is following us?”

“No,” Nero responded. “But someone is.”

“Do you know who texted me?”

Nero held out his little hand towards John. “Can I see?”

John pulled out his phone and showed it, and Nero reached out to nab it from his hands. He stuffed John’s mobile into the pocket of his raincoat without looking at it.

“Hey!”

“I can hold on to your phone, it will make you less worried,” Nero said. He stood on his tiptoes and pressed the top floor of the hotel.

John wanted to try to take his phone back from the boy, but that didn’t seem right. But, really, very little of _this_ seemed right. John hadn’t even tried to call Sherlock himself.

There was the sound of a _ping_. John’s text alert noise.

“Let me have my mobile back,” John said. “I appreciate you holding it, but I need to see what they sent.”

“No,” Nero replied. “It’s making you nervous.”

“I need to see what they’re saying to me.”

“No, you don’t. You’re too worried. We’re here, anyway.” The lift stopped, and the door opened up to the top floor suite.

It was a very _Irene Adler_ room. The walls were dark red velvet squares with an uncomfortable and expensive looking golden settee perched in a corner near the window. In the center of the room, a golden, swirled headboard and footboard surrounded the most luxuriously draped bed that John had ever seen. The height of pretention and elegance.

Very Irene Adler. No wonder she liked it here. It didn’t look at all like a place where a mother, her son, and their dog would stay. No, it looked like a place a rich businesswoman or royalty would set up shop.

There was no sign of her, of course. No sign she’d ever graced these walls with her presence. But that was also her. She kept herself ready to move at any moment.

John didn’t have to look around to see that they wouldn’t find anything of value here. There was nothing. Not even her clothing, not even a thread out of place.

“Does she always keep it so---“

“She’s keeping up appearances,” Nero says, stepping over to the window.

John gestured to the settee, and then the bed. “Where do you sleep?”

Nero gave him a small smile. “She’s my Mother, Dr. Watson. We share the bed.”

Oh, well, that was surprising. John honestly expected to hear otherwise. Perhaps that was truly unfair of him. Irene had shown herself to be a very protective, if unconventional mother. She wouldn’t make her son sleep on the settee.

John’s phone went off again. Then, it began to ring.

“Nero,” John said. “I need you to give me the mobile.”

“No!” Nero said, giving him a pout. “No, you have to help me look around.”

John gave the boy a hard stare. “What are you hiding?”

Because that was it, wasn’t it? The boy had been nervous, had been fidgeting, but it wasn’t because he was _scared_. He was hiding. And now he didn’t want John to see his own mobile.

The phone stopped ringing. Nero scowled, and fumbled in his pocket. “Fine. I’ll give it to you, then---“

He pulled the mobile out, and two others fell out of his pocket. One was slim with gold trim---Irene Adler’s, clearly. The other was black, a smartphone. One John knew well.

Nero had Sherlock’s mobile.

A look of pure panic crossed Nero’s face.

“Why do you have _that_?” John demanded. “You said he wasn’t answering it!”

“I-I-I---“ Nero stammered.

“You _what_ , Nero?” John snapped. “You stole his mobile, which means you’ve seen him. Which means you _lied to me_ and---“

“It’s not what you think!” Nero said.

“Oh, isn’t it?” John said. “Because I think this is another game. Another game where you’re trying to play matchmaker with your bloody parents, and for some reason you’ve got me involved in it, too!”

Nero’s face went from startled, to slightly embarrassed. Apparently, it was _exactly_ what John thought.

Of course, there wasn’t time to finish the conversation. There was the sound of the lift behind them opening again, and John turned in time to see two men in suits step out. One was slender, with dark skin and thin glasses, the other was pale, with a balding head and a bright red tie.

They stared at John. No, not at John. Through him. Past him. Towards Nero.

“That’s the one,” the man in glasses said.

“Who are you?” John demanded. “What do you want?”

The balding man stepped forward, and John put himself between them and Nero. Whatever this was, John had a feeling Nero knew nothing about it. And John would be damned if he’d let the boy, no matter how frustrating, get hurt.

“We don’t have time for you, Dr. Watson,” the man in glasses said.

“You don’t have a choice,” John said. The balding man stepped forward, and John gave him a shove backwards. Pressure to the right shoulder sent the man moving farther back than John anticipated. Maybe an old injury?

“Yes, Dr. Watson,” the man in glasses said. “We do.”

John looked back to see the man in glasses raise a gun up. He pointed it at John’s chest and fired.


End file.
